


The Recognition Scene

by Pseudothyrum



Category: Spooks | MI-5, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, don't I know you from somewhere, egregious abuse of brackets, suspiciously similar characters, ttoi rp blogs, two guys hanging out in a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tariq is sitting in a bar, minding his own business, when a junior minister from a department that just about nobody in the world cares about turns up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Recognition Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the TTOI RP blog for Fergus, where he occasionally mentions how much he likes Spooks, and also how much he'd like to go out for a drink with Tariq.

It is one of Tariq’s exceptionally rare days off, and he is spending it in a pub. It’s a quiet one in Westminster, sparsely populated at this time of day. It feels oddly sanctified, this place, that hallowed feeling that makes talking above a whisper feel wrong, the dust motes dancing undisturbed through the shafts of light pouring in through the windows. He smirks to himself and absentmindedly flings a bird towards a precariously built wooden structure, wondering when he became so poetic. There are two other patrons, both sitting together at a table, talking quietly about something that they doubtlessly find incredibly important, their voices a muted hum that he finds oddly comforting. He hears the door open behind him, but doesn’t look up from his tablet. Somebody flings themselves onto the stool beside him, despite the rest of the bar being completely empty. Tariq looks up, and stops dead in the middle of saying just that. The man looks familiar, incredibly familiar. Gingery hair, light blue eyes, vaguely harried expression. He’s wearing a suit of middling value, which doesn’t fit in with Tariq’s half-remembrance, but still. Spookily familiar, like he’s seen him someplace before. Maybe one of the new trainees? He clears his throat and the guy looks at him, no recognition sparking in his eyes, though that could easily mean nothing, if he’s a spook.

“Tough day at the office?” he asks nonchalantly. Of course, he is expecting a particular answer.  
“You have no idea, mate,” the man says, giving the wrong one, and Tariq relaxes incrementally. One of those faces, maybe.  
“Oh?” Tariq can’t help but be curious. He’s always found the problems in other people’s jobs fascinating, though he can never help but compare them to the hectic life of Section D (and judge them, a little, for having it so easy).  
The man launches immediately into a highly detailed description of what does, indeed, sound to be a very tough day at the office. He appears to be a minor politician of some sort (perhaps that’s where Tariq recognizes him from? He doesn’t watch the news much), with a little bit more belief in his own power than actual power, if Tariq doesn’t much miss his guess. Apparently his coalition partner has done something terrible involving a much-loved policy and cultural insensitivity a-fucking-gain, and the man has been left to clean up, not to mention an ongoing (but curiously unspecified) semi-scandal involving his personal life, and his special advisor has been having a go at him all week about the time he accidentally turned up in France (Tariq doesn’t even want to know, and yet he very much does). Next thing he knows, his companion is regaling him with a series of increasingly unbelievable anecdotes, both from his office and from his personal life (which appears to revolve largely around the Territorial Army and getting pissed in new and exciting ways). Tariq doesn’t know what a Terri is, but he knows he wants it kept well away from him. 

At some point they acquire beers, and Tariq begins relating some (extremely expurgated and very creatively edited) tales of his own work life. It’s easy enough to recast everybody into the roles of ordinary office workers, and they spend at least half an hour talking about “Larry” and “Edith”, who clearly have something going on even if neither of them are willing to admit it (and honestly if he was to tell his past self that one day he would be in a bar discussing the love lives of his coworkers with a stranger, he wouldn’t have believed it). They’ve been talking for almost an hour before Tariq even thinks to glance at his watch, and an hour more before their discussion on the merits of various computer platforms is interrupted by the man’s phone vibrating, jittering across the bar top and bumping into one of their glasses. He glances at the screen and lets out a creative and frankly impressive stream of curses. 

“Sorry, mate,” he mouths, picking up the phone and listening for about half a second before erupting into a renewed river of curses. He hangs up after about two minutes and slams the phone on the bar. Tariq winces internally at the thought of the poor phone, which surely didn’t deserve such treatment, regardless of whatever it was this Phil person had managed to do involving accidentally leaking information about some sort of bank to someone or other. 

“I’m sorry,” says the man, gathering up his coat and hurriedly tossing some cash on the counter, “I have to go kill somebody,” the way he’s glowering, Tariq would almost believe it.  
“It was a pleasure meeting you, uh-” he realizes, in all the time he’s spent talking to the man, that he hasn’t once found out his name.  
“Fergus. Fergus Williams,” the man says, extending his hand to shake, “It was good to meet you too,” he cocks his head, and Tariq realizes they were both at a loss.  
“Tariq,” he supplies along with his hand, not even thinking to come up with a fake name. Fergus smiles, eyes too-bright, almost feral.  
“Well Tariq, if I end up in prison for murder, I’d appreciate you bailing me out. God knows Adam won’t do it again,” And with that he whisks out of the pub, trailing a storm cloud of anger behind him. 

The moment he’s gone, Tariq begins researching the man, finding him to be almost exactly as expected. For such a shockingly inconsequential department, he and his coalition partners have established a frankly impressive record of scandals and screw-ups. One that is somehow, remarkably, paralleled by the previous government’s record. Tariq smiles at the Silicone Playgrounds thing, which he remembers fondly for the hilariously ineffective launch and subsequent shit-storm that lit up the internet in a technicolour explosion of indignation and amusement. He glances back at the time after about ten minutes of scrolling through some of the (heavily edited and thus detail-deficient and far less amusing) news versions of the stories that Fergus had told him. He packs up his stuff and wanders out into the gathering dusk. He doesn’t think he’ll ever see Fergus again.


End file.
